by Anne Thomas
And so, through some completely and utterly twisted and possibly mental sense of logic, I wholly and entirely blame France.
Chapter 1: A Gobby Cow
The rest of the summer holiday passed without anything in particular happening. I barely saw anyone for the six weeks I had off from school: I mostly spoke to people over the Internet and the phone. Near the end of the holiday – about four weeks in – I went on holiday with my family to Ireland. It was nice, but nothing could distract me from the fact I had to return to school, where no doubt Billie Winters and his friends would torment me. Also, a lot of people would probably have heard by then that I'd hit Billie Winters. Naturally, I was a bundle of nerves on the day I had to go back.
Firstly, I think I should explain about my brother Gareth. He's younger than me, and when I was entering into Year 10, he was just starting high school in Year 7. He'd had one day at school on the Induction Day, but the day after – the day I went back myself – was his first proper day at high school. My two other brothers, Pete and Matty, were older than both Gareth and me and had left school a few years earlier and were both now in their twenties.
So our dad gave Gareth and me a lift to school. When we arrived, Gareth said that he couldn't see his friends. I refused then, point blank, to go wandering off around school looking for a group of Year 7's, and he didn't want to go off on his own, so he followed me over to my group of friends. To get to said group of friends, I had to walk past a large group of Year 11 girls. Some of them had gone to France. All of them were friends of Billie Winters.
"That's her," I heard one of them whisper as I walked past, "The one that hit Billie. Oh, my God, that was hilarious..." Gordon looked up at me curiously as he heard them. You see, I never bothered telling any of my family about the France incident. That was more trouble than it was worth. I'd be the butt of Pete's jokes forever.
I held my head high and ignored them; I also ignored Gareth's confused gaze. I greeted the friends I hadn't seen all summer and tried to forget about Billie Winters and his Year 11 friends. I would have been more successful if it hadn't been for Gwen's timely appearance with Suzanne in tow. Gwen – I think I might have mentioned this earlier – is what my mother calls a "gobby cow" – in other words, she talks before she thinks, and bloody hell, can she talk.
"Have you seen Billie yet, Nerys?" she demanded in a really loud voice, practically bouncing up and down on the spot next to me. My friends all looked at me, and then I realised that they all knew. Of course, they did: most of them were Mentors now and had been there on the Induction Day for the Year 7s. Gwen was also a Mentor and naturally, would have filled them in on our trip to France. Someone else, probably Ann, would have told any who weren't Mentors (Mentors, by the way, are Year 10 students who look after the Year 7s during their first year at our school. They deal with issues of bullying and any class work issues they may have, and occasionally help with home problems. It's quite a good job to do. I'm not good with younger children, so I didn't apply).
"No," I replied through gritted teeth, "I haven't seen Billie Winters yet."
"Oh, don't worry," Gwen cooed, patting me on the arm. "The bruise will have faded by now, I bet." Behind her, Suzanne shook her head and rolled her eyes and gave me a tiny, tiny smile.
"He had a bruise?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. Gwen nodded eagerly, light brown hair bouncing. Gareth's eyes were as wide as saucers, like a slightly deranged cat that has spotted something it desperately needs to kill.
"Yep! Mari said that she saw him over the holidays, just a week after we got back from France, and he had a massive bruise down one side of his face. Just simply massive." Mari, for future reference, is Gwen's cousin. Like Gwen, she is viewed as being perfect by the teaching staff and adores the performing arts. Their only difference is that while Mari is a straight A student, Gwen is a straight C student, if such a thing is possible. She somehow manages to keep herself in the top set. None of us can work out how she manages it, but she does.
Next, to me, my friend Siân Jones snorted quite loudly. She was, like me, not a Mentor. She swears too much, and she scares anyone younger than us.
"You know, Nerys," Siân drawled, "I can't believe that you, out of all of us, actually punched someone."
I frowned at her reprovingly before I replied. "It wasn't a punch. It was more of a slap, but harder. Anyway, any of you would have done the same; he tried to drop me in the bloody shark tank!" They all giggled at that as if they didn't quite believe me. Gwen, on the other hand, was nodding along.
"He did, actually," she informed them. "I told you that yesterday, didn't I?" she added innocently, but I knew she hadn't. Typical Gwen: tells everyone the story but gets most of it wrong. I bet in her version I tried to kiss him and he turned me down, so I hit him. As it came from Gwen, most of them would believe it.
"Well, he didn't try and drop me," I conceded, "He just picked me up and kind of...leaned me over the edge? I don't know, but it was scary. Siân, you would have done the same thing, I know you would have."
"I would have chucked him in the shark tank myself," she declared proudly. Knowing Siân, she probably would have had a good go. If she didn't, her brother would have done. Well, no: she would have told him when she got home, and then he would have hunted Billie down, dumped him in the back of his van, and driven him to Rhyl. That would be where Billie would meet his unfortunate demise. Gethin Jones is can, after all, be a very scary young man when he wants to be. Only the fact that I've known him since I could crawl stops me from being terrified of him. That and the fact I know he loves his pet cat, Whiskers, more than he's ever loved any of his girlfriends. But anyway, back to the story.
Gareth, meanwhile, was mulling over this. And then he let out a shout of laughter, pointing at me. Everyone looked at him. "Oh my God!" he shrieked. "You punched someone! You punched someone! I can't believe it! I can't wait to tell Pete, he'll –"
I gave him a slight dig in the shoulder and narrowed my eyes. "Shut up, Gareth." He continued to laugh.
"That's quality, that is," he declared. I rolled my eyes and gave him a small shove. Quality is the sort of word that Pete uses at home; naturally, his little brother had picked up the word and now applied it to everything.
I looked around at my friends. I hadn't seen any of them in so long, it felt. Well, there was Siân, of course – fair-haired with a steely glint in her eyes, she was quite a tough girl who knew how to handle herself. She was also fiercely loyal with an unusual sense of humour. Next was Sharon Deere. She was, to put it simply, just a lovely girl who I've never really heard speak a bad word about anyone. She was everyone's confidant, simply because it never occurred to her to spill anyone's secrets.
Sharon was best friends with Elisha Watts. She had been for as long as I had known her. They complimented each other perfectly. Like Sharon, Elisha was a very kind-hearted girl, but more lively. She had a unique fashion sense and adoration for surreal comedy shows; Elisha was by far the most childlike member of our group. And then there was Ann Parry. Most people assumed she was a geek. She was highly intelligent – predicted to get perfect A*'s in her GCSEs, with a natural understanding of all things mathematic or scientific. However, I like to think that I know her better than that. She also had a wicked sense of humour and a dry sort of sarcasm about her that I loved. Finally, she was just a great friend to have around.
Then there's Bethany "Beth" Pritchard. We've been friends for about as long as I can remember. Well, give or take a few months when we absolutely loathed each other for various reasons. But those issues have been sorted out, and now we're closer than we've ever been, I suppose. She's not a Mentor.
And finally, there was John Jervis. He hung around with us because most of the boys in our year thought he was too weedy and girly to be seen with, but none of us minded; John Jervis was, quite simply, a hell of a lot of fun. Most people thought he was gay, but I knew it wasn't the case. He'd fancied Suzanne since Year 7, and she was just oblivious. It really tore him u
p when she started going out with Gordon, but he puts on a brave face whenever the "happy couple" are around him.
"Well," John said quite loudly, throwing his arm around my shoulder, "I bet our new little spitfire can't wait to meet Mr. Winters..." He grinned down at me. "I can see the eagerness in her face right now –" I shrugged his arm off me and smacked his shoulder. He danced away from me, nearly barging into Suzanne.
"Shut it, John," I grumbled. "I don't want to meet the two -"
"Now, now, watch your language," a voice drawled from behind me. An all-too familiar voice, in fact. "We wouldn't want your little brother picking up any dirty habits, would we, Freckles?"
Gah. Freckles. What a nickname. It wasn't my fault that I inherited my father's ridiculous amount of freckles. I had so many on my arms that it was just a brown splodge. And they were on my face, too, and all over my body. To be honest, my freckles had never really bothered me. They were there, and I knew they were, but I just got over it. But that nickname...God, it riled me. Maybe it wasn't the nickname that annoyed me. Maybe it was just the person that bestowed it upon me.
I could see that Siân and John were trying so very hard not to wet themselves, while Gwen just looked delighted at Billie's appearance. Ann just sighed and shook her head. Sharon and Elisha began to edge away from the group, chattering about some comedy show that had been on TV the night before. Gareth stared up at me with wide eyes, and I slowly turned around.
His hair was longer, much more unkempt, and his left eyebrow looked slightly red and raw. I guessed it was an eyebrow piercing, minus the bar (my older brother Pete had loads of facial piercings). But the cocky, arrogant smirk remained the same, as did his stance – hands in pockets, shoulders are thrown back, chest puffed out... Naturally, he had his crowd of idiotic friends behind him. Did he go anywhere without his little gang? My hand began to itch, and I felt like hitting him again. Instead, I stuck my nose in the air and whirled back around.
"Come on, Gareth," I said in a loud voice. "Let's go and find your friends." When he didn't move, I grabbed hold of his hand and practically dragged him away into the quad.
Ann followed me, and so did Siân and Beth. John paused and began to chat with Billie, but then he came and found us as we stood by the girls' toilets, a grin stretched right across his face. I glared at him. "Don't say a word, John Jervis," I growled, pointing my finger at his face. "Not. A. Bloody. Word."
He held up his hands defensively. "Don't worry, Nerys," he said, "I wasn't going to. Gwen might, though. You know what The Beast is like."
The Beast was John's nickname for Gwen. Needless to say, he didn't like her.
Just as he said this, the said Beast turned the corner, her face alight with mischief. Well, not mischief. It was more sinister than that like she was just about to let rip with some supreme bitchiness. You know, the sort of thing that was intended to make me cry or make me worry for the rest of the day.
"Nerys, you'll never guess what Billie just said to me – " Gwen shrieked loudly as she reached us. She grabbed my hands in hers, clasping them like she was about to tell me some tragic news. Thankfully, that's when the bell that signaled the beginning of form time (and, in turn, the beginning of the new school year) rang.
"Oh, what a shame," John boomed, throwing an arm around my shoulder and steering me, so I faced away from her, "Sorry, Gwen, you'll have to tell her at the break. Tatty bye!" I snorted. Gwen's form, you see, is in the opposite direction to mine. She has to go to the science labs, while I have to go to the IT rooms. John's not in my form, but he's just down the corridor in the maths department, so we usually walk up there together.
Gareth jogged along to keep up with John and me and then overtook us as he spied some of his friends in the throng of students pushing towards the door. I caught hold of the handle on his backpack, yanking him backward. He stumbled and glared at me.
"D'you know how to get to your form room?" I asked him, keeping my fingers curled around the handle. "Who's your form tutor again? D'you want me to walk you...?"
"I remember where it is just fine, Nerys," Gareth snapped impatiently. "And my form tutor is Mrs. Greenhalgh."
"That's maths, yeah," I said. "Just opposite John's room. John..."
John rolled his eyes. "Nerys, you don't need to get all big-sisterly on him. He's fine, aren't you, kiddo?" Gareth didn't respond, but I let go of his bag anyway. He ran off, pushing through the crowd until he caught up with his friends, and then they all began to climb the stairs.
"Ugh, I am so not in the mood for school," I complained as I and John began to ascend the stairs ourselves. I felt someone pull on my schoolbag and glanced over my shoulder. It was just Beth. She's in the same form like me.
"Is anyone ever in the mood for school, love?" John clucked. He rested his shoulder on the double doors that led onto the main school corridor and shoved. He held the door open for Beth and me and then let a little Year 9 girl grab hold of it before he swept through himself.
"Anyone who's ever in the mood for school is a flaming nutter," I told him. "See you later."
"Yeah. See you." Beth and I then trudged towards our form room. The door was open already, with a wedge of worn wood shoved under it to prop it open. It was a familiar room to us, naturally: green carpet, green walls covered with posters and IT instructions, and a whiteboard and an interactive whiteboard. All the computers and computer desks were in one-half of the room, while four rows of tables and chairs dominated the other half. We took our usual seats on the second row and began to converse about the summer holidays. She told me about her eventful holiday to Cyprus, and I told her about the incident with Billie in France in more detail. I noticed the things about her that had changed over the summer – her hair was shorter, and she had blonde highlights, and her brace was gone. Her slightly nasal voice – caused by a viral infection she'd had for ages that resulted in a blocked nose and a sore throat every few weeks – remained, as did the ever-present packet of tissues sticking out of her blazer pocket and a bottle of nasal spray. She was still the same Beth. What I mean by this is that over long holidays, I get concerned that my friends will have changed by the time we return to school.
It hasn't happened yet, so far. Not really.
The room began to fill with the usual crowd of people in our form, but our form tutor, Miss Moore, made no appearance. Beth's conversation and mine switched to this, as it was highly unusual for Miss Moore to be late. Especially on the first day back at school. There's so much stuff to do, like handing out new timetables, sorting out homework planners and so on. Granted, we do have the entire form time (fifteen minutes) and an entire lesson afterward (fifty minutes) to do this in. On the first day of school, you see, we never go to our first lesson. We spend the first lesson in form and then move on to our second lesson.
We were ten minutes into form time when Miss Moore made her appearance. By this time, the form had become pretty rowdy. All the lads were yelling, and the girls were all cackling loudly. And then Miss Moore swept in. She looked like she usually did – slender, with posh clothes and pointy shoes, dark hair glossy and thick, a pile of folders tucked under one arm. She silenced the noisy people in our form with just one look and sank onto her office chair. "Sorry I'm late, everyone," she said, placing her folders upon her desk. As it was the beginning of the year, her desk was pristine. "We have a new addition to our form," she continued. "He's a bit shy. He's come all the way from Cardiff." He was from South Wales, then, I noted, and then I looked at the boy.
"Everyone, meet Glyn Newell."
He was quite short – shorter than my five foot five, probably – and deathly pale. He had cropped ginger hair and a perfect school uniform. I suppose that then he just looked kind of slightly normal. A bit geekier than most, but then again, I couldn't say anything about people being geeky.
He raised a hand in greeting. The boys exchanged amused glances, and I knew – knew then that this boy was going to be the butt of everyone's jokes. Forever. But still, I ha
d no idea that Glyn Newell – as geeky and as victim-like as he immediately seemed – was going to be the main root of all the trouble that happened to me that year. Because, you know, at first he just seemed pretty harmless, I suppose.
But as it turned out later, Glyn Newell was anything but harmless. I wish I'd known that then. It might have saved me from a lot of trouble.
Chapter 2: Meeting Glyn Newell
Hell. What can I say about Glyn that I've not already said? I've told you what he looks like; I've told you that he was immediately pinpointed by the lads as being a victim. There's not much else to say about him; he was just...Glyn Newell. He was nearly always addressed by first name and surname, for some reason. Within a day, everyone knew who he was, and by his second day at our school, he'd already been beaten up by a group of Year 9 boys for some reason or other. I don't know.
It's just, at first, it was – is – so easy to feel sorry for Glyn. He'd just moved to a new place, and was clearly out of his depth. I don't think he expected the level of animosity that greeted him when he started at our school. Where he'd come from, he clearly wasn't that much of an outcast. But the thing was, he didn't do anything to deserve the way he was treated at first. At first, he was quite friendly to everyone, but maybe that was the issue. Some people would say he was too friendly. For the first few days, he tried to hang around with Gordon and his friends, but they began to avoid him before firmly telling him to back off, or he'd get a slap around the face.
But it wasn't just the lads that gave Glyn trouble. It was kind of everyone. He just didn't fit in. People quickly caught onto the fact that he didn't speak Welsh, so there were a couple of times when our entire class – minus the teacher, of course – just spoke in Welsh all the time, so that he couldn't join in on anyone's conversation. That was pretty harsh, and it wasn't exactly fair. I avoided the whole issue by just not speaking at all.
Looking back, I guess that if people had treated him a bit nicer, he never would have...Well. He would never have done what he did. But, you know, maybe it was always programmed in him. Maybe.
